


adore

by lavish (valerian)



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Shameless Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but mostly from the fact he says he 'adores' her in game, titles from a hot song by cashmere cat, writing this hurts so good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4473731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valerian/pseuds/lavish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just a physical attraction thing, he says. </p><p>It'll never amount to anything, she says. </p><p>They're both wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. boy, so what's been on your mind

**Author's Note:**

> So I love these two together. Or, I love the idea of these two together. I just felt as though something was missing from their support dialogues, so I decided to work within that framework to flesh things out a bit and explain the who, what, where, when, how, and why they work. 
> 
> Because they do work. 
> 
> And, fair warning, this will probably get kinda smutty as it continues. Because why wouldn't it?

What they have is this. 

Look. 

See. 

See _here_ , now—

What they have is a physical attraction. 

A physical attraction. 

That’s it. That’s all there is to it, this thing between them. This psuedo-flirtation, if you will—this _thing_ that is sort of bickering-over-breakfast-lunch-and-dinner; sort of her saving his life, like, five times per battle and him returning the favor at least twice. 

Sort of a temporary and frivolous obsession of the heart, guided by big, fat, stupid hormones and big, fat, stupid hormones alone. 

So don’t you dare call it a “crush,” or, worse, “Love”—with a capital L and a sigh and a hand over his heart.

Because dear _gods_ , it is so not love. 

How could he love someone so…loud? So needy? 

So selfish?

Except…she’s not _that_ selfish. But she can be. And she can be rude, too. Like, really rude. The rudest person he’s ever seen, heard, or met; so rude he can barely tolerate it at times, the need to walk away so strong, except his ego is kinda, sorta, I-hate-to-admit-it but _really_ big, so he forces himself to stay and take it like a man.

And, besides, it’s not like—it’s not like he’ll ever _act_ upon this physical attraction. He’s never acted upon any of the few he’s had before. 

(And yeah he’s had some other attractions. Why shouldn’t he? He’s a hot-blooded male of the proper, er…mating…age. He’s allowed to be attracted to the female body in the flesh, excited by the occasional bare-skinned brush, the low whisper in his ear, lips against lobe like he’s got nothing else to feel in this world except this moment, this tingling, so sweet, so _sweet_.) 

So, yeah, he’s never acted upon his physical attractions. Not a single one. Because he’s fighting a godsdamn war in every one of his lifetimes, in every single fucking universe—what time is there to flirt with girls? 

(And, most importantly, _how_ do you flirt with girls? Gods. Some codes are too hard to break and, therefore, are not worth his time.)  

_Anyway,_ the point is that he likes the way she looks, okay? Gods. It’s just—it’s just the way Severa’s hair whips and floats and sort of does this swishing thingy thing during battles. She’s got a very expressive way of fighting; her stance, while sturdy, is never quite _still._ There’s nothing about her lunges, her parries, pivots, and her killing blows that are static either—nothing textbook about her moves. 

They’re just—they’re just all very _her._ A bit colorful, plenty bold, flashy. Show-off-y. Subtly “look at me, look how clean and efficient I can be while I slash someone’s throat or hack someone’s arm off, and haha, I may be beautiful, but I’m deadly too.” 

A black widow. 

(Oh, gods, what a horrible metaphor.) 

… …

Anyway. 

What he’s trying to say here is that when she confronts him about his mask he doesn’t wanna talk to her. He’s just so sick of being around her. He’s just _so sick_ of trying to maintain eye contact while his gaze longs to slide down, down, downward, _yes_ , then maybe, possibly even _further_ down, though there’s not _that_ much to see because she’s covered up, except for that one time he’d accidentally walked past the women’s bathing tent as she walked out in a tiiiiiiiiiny towel which by some act of fate slipped and he’d tried not to do a double take but he did a triple take instead and praise Naga she hadn’t seen his perverted, fiendish, absolutely suicidal—

“Gerome! Hellllloooooo? Are you listening to me?” 

He shakes his head. Oops. 

“Er. Yes?” 

“Oh my gawds. You were totally spacing out on me just now!” Her fingers, long and fine, ball into fists. “Am I _so_ unworthy of your attention that you can’t even spare me a _second_ to answer my damn question—“ 

“Severa.” He holds his hand up, just as he keeps his eyes _up. “_ Stop talking.” 

“What?” She scowls, her dark eyebrows drawing together. “How _dare_ you command me not to talk! I’m allowed to talk as I please!” 

“My ears are tired of hearing your voice.” He drops the hand, blinks. “It’s enough to have to listen to you whine all day on the battlefield. A man needs a break from time to time.” 

“Wha—?” Shit. She looks damn mad with her mouth hanging open, her dark brownish, almost red (depending on her mood) eyes widening ever-so-slightly. “Did you just—how could you—ugh— _RUUUUUUUDE!”_

She stomps away. 

He scoffs. Then when he’s done rolling his eyes, he makes sure to watch, most carefully, her backside. Or, er, her _retreating form_ , y’know? In case of…foes. Lurking. In the shadows. Who might, like, do evil things to her backside, which would be very bad for her back…side.

He clears his throat. Rubs his neck. Gods, this is a nightmare. This is everything he’s ever _not_ wanted—to be so distracted by some dumb girl. 

Granted, she’s a special girl, a real Warrior Woman and Heroine of the Most Magnificent Kind, but still. 

She’s a _girl,_ and he’s a _boy_ and he’s suddenly got an awful obsession he must get over because he can’t be distracted by anything. 

Not when the fate of the world hangs upon the balance that is his being able to concentrate, to bleed, to _fight_. 

None of which Gerome can do if he’s too busy staring at Severa’s ass. 

(Though, to be fair, it is a really nice ass.) 

 


	2. for me, it's just you all the time

 

Gods, does he make her mad. 

He makes her mad in the sweetest, most masochistic way possible. 

She’s mad, of course, because he doesn’t respect her, despite her immaculate service record to him—in fourteen battles they’ve paired off, and in fourteen battles he’s survived. 

And she’s masochistic in that she kinda… _likes…_ that he talks back to her? That he’s not afraid of her…? Somethin’ like that.

He’s annoyed by her, yeah, she can tell as much. 

But he’s not afraid of her. He doesn’t cower before her. He doesn’t run, jump, skip, and a-hop away at the very sight of her. 

If anything, he stands even more still than he normally does when she’s around. He just stands still and looks at her, eyes (or what she can see of his eyes behind that stupid mask) bored and unreadable and apathetic and dark and handsome and mysterious aaaaaaaand—fuck. 

That’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s the core of it, the heart of it, the very _meat_ of her whole “Gerome Situation,” as she’s dubbed it in her head, at night, when she’s resting her head against an awfully lumpy pillow and _trying_ , amid the nightmares, to fall asleep. 

He’s hot. 

Okay? 

And so what if she shouldn’t really make that judgment without having seen his face since, well, forever? ‘Cuz while she may not be able to determine if his face is hot (it probably is, given how he’d once looked all those years ago, fighting tears astride Minerva and resilient, strong, and brave), his body, the absolutely gorgeous way he fights, the overwhelming physicality of him—it’s all hot, okay? 

In the most tall (6’3”?), dark (his hair), and handsome (he _has_ to be handsome, it’d be weird if he were not) way, he is _hot_. 

And by gaaaaawds, she is _lame._

Lame. 

_Laaaaame._

She’s so lame. 

She’s so lame that she is the worst. She is the sitting by a creek and picking petals off a jasmine flower and then crushing the petals to a pulp in her fist kind of worst.

“You’re the worst, Severa,” she whispers to herself to really drive the point home. Also, she squeezes a petal so hard she can feel damp flower mush all over her ungloved palm. “You are the fucking worst. Everyone’s right about you. You are…awful.”

She picks another flower up. It’s a rose, so pretty. So delicate, feminine, elegant, and plain old beautiful. 

This flower is the Standard to Which Severa is Held, but she is the worst right now, fussing over a stupid boy with stupid hair and stupid eyes and stupid lips instead of training. 

“Give it up. Nobody likes you,” she says, plucking a petal off with glee. “And nobody ever will—“

“Who are you speaking with?”

Her ears start to burn as soon as she recognizes his voice, which is immediately. She drops the flower. 

Fuck. 

“What do you want?” She turns her head, glares at him over her shoulder. It’s straining her neck to look up at him, standing straight and tall and proud.

He shrugs. “I’m on patrol. When I heard you mumbling to yourself, I figured I’d check in on you to ensure your sanity is intact.” 

“If it weren’t, you’d know who to blame,” she mutters, looking ahead again, across the creek and at a field of dead grass and other forms of death, a once living piece of land destroyed. 

“Let me guess. It’s me.”

“Bingo.” She runs her hand across her lap and hastily wipes away the mess of petals she's made. 

She tosses the rose into the water. 

“N-not that what you have to say is important to me at all,” she adds belatedly, scrubbing one dirtied palm with another. “It’s just that you’re so—annoying. And hard. To be around. _Especially_ when you wear that _stupid_ mask of yours. Like—what’s the deal? Honestly.” 

He sighs, a long suffering sorta sound that he probably hadn’t meant to sting her as much as it does.

“If I give you an answer, will you let me be?” he says.

She turns again to look him in the eye. The sun’s directly behind his head, however, and it casts a halo around his hair but also shadows his face. 

(She’s reminded briefly that only gods wear halos, and gods are not, and can never be, silly girls who let everyone down.) 

“Yeah. Sure,” she manages to say. Then she licks her bottom lip, which has begun to feel dry and cracked with all the biting from all the ruminating and self-hatred and self-loathing. She swallows. “Hit me with it.” 

He folds his arms across his chest, then he unfolds them a second afterward. She watches him flex the fingers of one hand, the fingers of his other tightening his grip upon his lance. 

“In battle, the mask helps me conceal my emotions and feelings from a foe. It gives me a valuable edge in the midst of any crucial struggle.” 

…That’s it? She can’t believe it. She stares at him and can’t believe a thing. 

“Doesn’t it narrow your field of vision? Like horse blinders or whatever?” 

“Of course. That is why I have trained myself to razor sharpness. My battle senses are so keen I can fight—and win—blindfolded.” 

Gods, is he _hearing_ the words coming out of his mouth? What a load of pegasus manure. Battle senses so keen he can win blindfolded…Psh. Pshhhhhhhhhhh. 

(She wonders what else he’s good at blindfolded.)

“You must be great at parties,” she says, cocking a brow. “I bet people looooove it when you whip that little trick out.” 

He grunts. “I do not whip anything out. I’m no show horse.” 

A twitch at her lips begs her to smile, but she doesn’t. “I know that. It was a joke.” 

“A joke at my expense. Which I do not appreciate.” 

“Why?” She tilts her head. “Are your smallclothes so tight you’ve got fabric riding up your ass?” 

His nostrils flare, and his nose burns pink. He’s flustered, that much is for sure, and she can tell he’s about to walk away in five, four, three, two—

“I’ve had enough of this nonsense.” He turns and strides away most proudly and most _prudently._

Because she has no idea where she was about to go with that joke. Like, she could’ve gone so many places with that joke about his smallclothes and his (fine) ass, which she most certainly _is_ ogling now as he walks away so self-righteously and whatnot. 

Gods. But it's just, like, do people not get sarcasm anymore? 

She rubs her nose, and her fingers smell like perfume. 

“Why’s it so hard to be me?” she wonders aloud, dipping her hand into the creek. The water washes the heady scent of jasmine (dirtied by rose) away. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several lines of dialogue were lifted directly from the in-game Gerome/Severa support. No copyright infringement intended.


	3. we don't need to go nowhere tonight

He can’t be her partner anymore. He’s tried to be, and now he just—he just can’t. 

But, just to be clear, it has _nothing_ to do with the whole physical attraction thing that’s still (still, ugh, _still)_ going on in and about his head/heart/and lower areas of his body, okay. 

It’s just that summer’s rolling right in, and it’s getting hot and humid and sticky and it all just makes him irritable and annoyed and sometimes he’ll catch himself watching droplets of sweat slide down her neck which only increases the annoyed-ness (aimed at himself, mostly) and then she’ll also go and do things like, like—

Dive into a lake. 

In her smallclothes and smallclothes alone. 

Granted, there are no Risen around, as they had just killed them all, but there _could_ be more waiting to pounce, who knows, he hasn’t really checked yet because his gaze is rather fixed on the water, especially the rivulets streaming down her face as she breaks the surface and stares up at him and her shoulders are bare—

“What are you doing?” he growls. “This is no time for swimming.”  

“This is the _perfect_ time, Gerome. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s hot as hell, and I am _covered_ in blood.” She tosses a drenched pigtail back. “Or I was. Until I jumped in here.” 

He blinks at her, then looks around him so he doesn’t have to look at her. “There could be— _others_. Risen _—_ and—do you want to _die—_ naked?” 

“I’m not naked. I’m wearing my smallclothes.” 

“I see no difference.” 

“Really?” She tilts her head to one side. “Do you need visual confirmation, or—“ 

He can feel his cheeks warm (as if they aren’t warm enough), and he shakes his head most ardently. “No. No. No. No, I do not.” 

She shrugs. “Suit yourself. And if you’re so afraid ofRisen ambushing us, you can stand guard while I swim.” 

“I did not come all the way out here to guard you while you swim!” He bristles and crosses his arms. “We must return to camp. Chrom is waiting on a mission report.” 

“Here’s the report: ‘All the Risen in this area are dead. Because we killed them.’ I mean, come _on!_ Loosen up for once! Worrying too much is bad for the skin, you know. _”_

“I care not about my skin.” 

“Well, I care a lot about mine, and until I’ve got all the blood off it, I have no intention of leaving this lake.” She splashes water onto her arm and rubs at the dried blood there. “So either join me or stand guard.” 

“I’d rather die than join you.” Which is a lie, obviously, but she doesn’t have to know that. 

“Then shut up, and give me, like, twenty minutes.” 

“Are you kidding? Minerva is tired. Ten.” 

“Minerva doesn’t look all that bad. Right, girl?” She coos in his wyvern’s general direction. “Aren’t you a lovely thing?” 

“Don’t call her a ‘thing.’ She’s a work of art, a masterpiece of nature.”  

“Well, she’s beautiful, and she approves of my swimming.” 

“Do you?” Gerome asks Minerva. 

Minerva screeches something in reply, a phrase made more coherent by her ambling toward the water herself and taking a long, deep drink. 

“Ha ha! See?” Severa laughs. “She agrees with me.” 

“Hmph. I will not argue with Minerva then.” He shrugs. “You have five minutes.” 

“But you said ten!” 

“You have four minutes and fifty-eight seconds.” 

“Ugh, _fiiiiiiiine!”_

She’s under water again. There’s tension in his neck and in his arms and coiling somewhere deep within the hungriest, most lonely part of him. 

Because he _is_ lonely. Or, hungry. For affection. Of the physical kind. 

Minerva may be a cuddle monster and a decent pillow upon which to lay his head, but as much as he is loathe to admit, he’s never known the touch of a woman (if you don’t count the women who’ve harassed him a la Inigo’s insistence they “go out and pick up chicks”), and he’s been thinking a lot lately on that fact; that he’s twenty-two and a virgin and maybe if he can rid himself of this sexual tension he can focus better in battle… 

He reminds himself to ask Inigo on the “how” of this whole thing. This whole “I’m-Looking-to-Relieve-Myself-of-My-Gods-Damn-Hormones-Going-Crazy-Because-Some-Girl-Won’t-Let-Me-Be-and-Insists-on-Swimming-Basically-Naked-While-I-Stand-on-the-Shore-and-Am-Forced-to-Watch.” 

That, or, even better, he can oh-so-casually ask Robin _not_ to pair him with Severa anymore. 

No more battles will they fight together; no more recon missions will they successfully complete. 

No more watching her swim while he stews in frustration. 

It’s the perfect plan. One he entertains for all four minutes Severa swims. When she gets out of the water, however, his liberation from lust ends abruptly, replaced by a deep and primal fear that he has become Inigo, all girl crazy and dumb (but, like, with better hair, a better body, and better everything, frankly.)

“That was nice,” Severa says, lifting herself from the lake and dripping, dripping, dripping. Everywhere.

He turns away and barks to the space in front of him. “Hurry up and get dressed.” 

“You’re no fun at all,” she says. “For some dumb reason I thought for a moment that you could be. But on top of your stupid mask wearing habit, you’ve also got a hatred for relaxation, and that bores me.”

“You are hardly the most joyous person to be around either.”  

“And who would that title go to, huh? Owain?” She snorts. “…Cynthia?” 

“The latter more so than the former.”

“Yeah, well, at least Owain doesn’t actively _hate joy_ the way you do.” She scoffs. “Good luck ever finding someone to love.” 

He’s suddenly reminded why masks are awesome and great and why he wears them. Because that hurt. 

He clenches his right fist. “…Thanks.” 

“I didn’t mean that as a compliment.” 

“I know.” 

“Then don’t thank me for it.” She walks forward, and suddenly she’s in sight again, blessedly dressed and squeezing water from her hair. “Come on. Let’s go.” 

He trails behind her, and for a few minutes and several hundred paces he’s quiet. Very quiet. But then he can’t help himself, can’t help how much her words pierce him and burn him and rock him, and the following words fall from his mouth: 

“Someone does love me, you know.” 

She takes a moment to digest it and to smirk. “Who? Your mom?” 

He gnaws on his lower lip. “Cynthia,” he says slowly. “Cynthia loves me.” 

She stops walking and turns back to look at him. “What? Are you serious?” 

“She told me in no uncertain terms the other day that she does. Love me.” He shrugs all nonchalantly and stuff and doesn’t meet her eyes. “So you’re wrong about my being unable to find love. Because I have it. Unlike you.” 

“H-Hey!” The smirk has long disappeared. “That’s—how can you say something like that? And to a _lady,_ no less?” 

It’s his turn to scoff. “You’re no lady. No lady would strip to her underwear in front of another person, much less a _male_ person, and then just do what you just did.” 

Her expression is all fury. “And what _exactly_ did I just do?” 

“…The specifics are not important.” He swallows. “All I mean is that your claim to being a lady is negated by your actions. And by your words, if I am to be honest.” 

Her eyes, afire, narrow. “And what does _that_ mean?!” 

“Your words are like the blunt-edge of a knife. They cut people in the slowest, most torturous way.” He looks at her at last. “No woman of good breeding speaks the way you do.” 

Her mouth closes, and her eyes widen slightly, and then it hits him rather heavily that he most definitely should _not_ have taken out his frustrations on her. 

Because she looks like she’s about to cry. 

But, to her credit, she doesn’t. 

She does not shed a single tear the whole trek home. 

And then, as if by magic, Robin calls him in after dinner to inform him that “you're not Severa's partner anymore, cannot be her partner anymore, and, sorry Gerome, ‘ _never_ will be her partner ever again.’”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to Cynthia "loving" Gerome came from their B and A conversations.


	4. it's you and i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I write this, the more self-indulgent it gets. Ah. 
> 
> So be it.

So she hates him now. 

Actually, no. Wait. Scratch that. 

You can only hate people you care about. Who matter.

So she doesn’t _hate_ him. Far from it. 

She just doesn’t give a shit about him anymore—and it’s not hard to do. After all, what she had felt for him was a passing fancy at best, and at worst? A stupid, frivolous, tiny, idiotic crush. 

Hmph. 

Besides, tack on the fact that she hardly knows him, and why should she be devastated by his insults? By her loss of him? 

In all the time they’d spent together, the closest they had gotten _on any level_ were the times she had to ride Minerva with him, her front pressed firmly to his back, one arm around his waist, her eyes shut and face buried kinda, sorta, almost in his neck because she hadn’t liked the heights they were reaching because heights made her dizzy and her head spin and weirdly enough the scent of him did too—

Yeah. So. 

_So._

That’s…that’s…that’s hardly anything. It’s basically nothing, and it pretty much goes without saying that he is dead to her. 

Once human, he is now just a body, a figure, a _form._ He inhabits a planet she acknowledges exists but does not visit herself. Does not _want_ to visit. Because it’d be painful to visit. And awful. And landing on said planet— _nay_ , just hovering tentatively in its acid rain atmosphere would remind her of all her flaws and her weaknesses, her possibly being the guilty party in this conflict between them, her (not so accidental) stripping down and then pushing him and pushing him until he had snapped, and maybe he was a little bit right in saying that she wasn’t a lady because she could never be a lady, remorseful and chaste and lovely and precious, but she’s rambling again and anyway that’s not the point, the point here is that—

What she does about her Gerome Situation now and henceforth is this: 

She observes him. Y’know? She _observes_ him, the way one might observe an ant or a bird—from a mindful distance, with passing curiosity and an attitude stuffed too full of apathy for other feelings. Like, for instance, jealousy. 

Because, like, why would she be jealous that he’s training with Kjelle now? Who cares that he hangs around the knight and drops her bits of unwanted advice? (Not her!)

And who cares if they spar and Severa can hear them, even from a hundred paces away, the sound of their swords clanging, their mingled exhales, the melody of two friends who can cooperate and spend time in each other’s presence without intent to murder? 

(Definitely not her.)

Throw in the fact that Severa is most certainly _not_ irritated by his practically stalking Noire, his very conspicuous and broad and tall, er, _form_ orbiting the archer should Ms. Fragile Flower need assistance, and it’s pretty much like she’s over him. 

“So over him,” she mutters to herself as she stabs a practice dummy in the heart. Multiple times. “So. Over. Him _._ So. Over. _You—”_

A heavy swing of the sword. The dummy’s head falls to the grassy ground, and Severa kicks it further into the field for good measure. 

“That’s what you get!” she calls after it. “That’s what you get for being a jerky, jerkface asshole, you big, fat dastard—“ 

“Am I interrupting something?” 

She turns, her stomach doing quite an acrobatic flip (one Mom would be proud of). It promptly falls on its face, however, when she realizes it’s just Inigo.

Fuckin’ Inigo. 

“Yes, you are,” she says, flexing the much-used scowl muscles of her face. “You’re interrupting me. Go away.” 

“I don’t think so,” he says with that stupid grin of his. “It’s 4 o’clock, which means it’s Severa Hour, and I do not want to waste a second of such a treasured, daily event.” 

“That’s ‘Severa _Minute’_ to you, and honestly you should just give up. Because I’m not going to sleep with you. Not now. Not ever.” She tosses a lock of hair over her shoulder. “Even if _you_ don’t have an ounce of self respect, I _do.”_

“Ouch! The Ice Queen’s arrows never miss.” He puts a hand on his heart then winks (infuriatingly attractive in the way peacocks are attractive, with their shiny feathers and dark eyes and vanity beyond anything you’ve ever seen). 

Her scowl deepens. “For your information, I never miss because I _train_ in my spare time. Unlike you, you floozy.” 

His smile only widens. “Yikes! Will Her Highness ever stop? I’m dying here!” 

“I’ll stop killing you when _you_ stop killing _me,_ moron!” She clenches her fists, one hand tight around the hilt of her sword. “Say one more dumb thing, and I’ll be playing ball with your head too.” 

“Oh, my dear Severa.” He has the audacity to bite his bottom lip, all pouty and shit. “Do you really hate me so?” 

“I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone, _ever!”_ She pivots from him, her right eyelid twitching. 

A hand on her arm keeps her from leaving. “Are you serious?” 

“Of course I am!” She jerks at his grip. 

He holds tight. “Then what about Gerome?” 

She ducks her head. “What about Gerome?” 

“You hate me more than you hate him?” 

“What?” She can feel a burning at her ears, her neck warming up as well. “What? I don’t—I don’t hate Gerome!” 

“Then why have you been sending him death glares when you think no one’s looking?” 

“Because…that’s—that’s just my face!” 

Inigo spins her around. She doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Then riddle me this: why do you leave the dinner table the second he sits down?” 

“Because I—I…I’m done eating, gawds! Why are you persecuting a girl for doing things at her own pace?!”

“Because there is dessert! _Dessert,_ Severa!” He sighs. “Surely you can’t deny how suspicious it is that you missed out on ice cream five nights in a row. It’s crazy hot, and you love that stuff!” 

“Yes, I do! But I also value privacy when I’m—look, I was just—I’ve just been—“ She swallows and wracks her brain. 

Ah, got it. 

“…I try to take baths earlier is what I’ve been doing,” she says. “Earlier, and with less people, and the best time to avoid the crowds is to bathe when everyone’s still eating, so—“ 

“Okay, fine. Prove it then.” 

She narrows her eyes. “Prove _what_ exactly?”

“Prove to me that you don’t hate Gerome.” 

“Why does it even matter to you whether I hate him or not?! It’s not like it matters to me. Or to him.” 

“Because bad blood wears on morale, and it’s disturbing the equilibrium of the team. So either admit you hate him and then work out your issues like adults, or prove to me that you don’t hate him so we can all be friends. Who work together. And eat together. And fight together, as friends do.” 

“I…” She sighs, loud and weary.“How—how would I even prove that? It’s not like you’re willing to listen to my _words_ , the ones that specifically say _I_ _do_ _not_ _hate_ Gerome.” 

“You can prove you don’t hate him by going to a party tonight, at an inn in town. They’re celebrating some local festival or another, and everyone’s going to be there, and I want you to come too.” 

She cocks an eyebrow. “Wait, hold up. Is this one of your lame, half-brained ways of asking me out on a date?” 

“Milady doth protest too much!” Inigo laughs. “And milady hath too big an ego.”

“So you’re _not_ asking me out?” 

“Not unless you want me to.” He smirks.

“Of course I don’t!” She sheathes her sword. “But fine. If this is going to shut you up about me and Gerome, I’ll go.” 

“Excellent! I’ll see you there at seven, Your Highness. And don’t forget to dress up.” 

“Great. I have to wear a dress now?” 

“I thought you liked wearing dresses.” 

“I do.” She sighs. “Whatever. Gawds. It’s not like any of this matters.” 

“It matters to me and my eyeballs.” One of his large hands slaps her shoulder.

She shrugs him off. “Ow, you idiot! Your hand’s heavier than a brick. That _hurt!”_

“Oh, I’m so very sorry.” He puckers his lips. “I can kiss the booboo to make it better—“ 

She sets her hand on the hilt of her sword again. “Another word, and your tongue will be all I wear tonight.” 

“Sounds hot.” 

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?!” 

“Alright, alright!” Inigo leaves. 

She returns to her tent to pick out a dress (all ladylike and lovely and precious). She finds ribbons, too, for her hair. 

‘Cuz if she has to pretend to be civilized tonight, she might as well look good doing it. 

(Because _he_ , sure as hell, will.) 

(Hmph.)

 


	5. we'll be alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooweee. This one got long. 
> 
> Also, thanks for all the reviews! I sincerely appreciate everything everyone's said. 
> 
> Please, enjoy Gerome being sexually frustrated. (Which is something I could write at the start of every chapter, basically.)

He doesn’t go to the party. 

Nope. No sirree, not him. 

…Er. Well. Okay. 

That’s a lie. 

He does go, because Inigo had, quite literally, dragged him there, hands steering shoulders and mouth blabbing on and on about “the women, Gerome, the women! Think of them and their lonely beds, and _your_ lonely bed—how could it get any better than this?” 

“I’ll tell you how it could get any better.” 

“Ooh, do share!” 

“If you would let go of me this instant so I could return to camp.” 

“No can do, old buddy, old pal. You are going to a party tonight, and you are going to like it.” 

But, as per usual, Inigo is wrong. Because he doesn’t like it. 

He doesn’t like it one bit. 

Granted, the inn _is_ classier than he’d expected it to be (it’s clean, well-lit, well-decorated, and well-stocked with booze), but that’s not incentive enough for him to _want_ to wile his hours away in a suffocating barroom-slash-ballroom, or whatever the hell a room with a dance floor but also lots of beer is called. 

Throw in the partnerless ladies, all rather inebriated themselves, jumping him the second he enters the establishment (again, ugh, what a pain) and he’s practically on a battlefield, dodging hands and feet and arms and legs left and right, up and down. 

So instead of torturing himself he chooses to (hide) stand outside, where the night air is crisp, the sounds of drunken partygoers and music are muffled, the moon bright and romantically full. 

Where lusty, impatient couples paw at each other and suck face behind tall hedges (you know, the kind only nice inns can afford to plant because they require constant attention and trimming from a gardener). 

Despite their unsavory displays, however, the couples barely bother Gerome, (hiding) standing behind a rectangular-shaped hedge himself. After all, he had grown up around nobility; he had been to his fair share of Fancy Parties in a past life, and he had experienced trauma at a young age, running into couples bumping uglies in the gardens, by the pools, even under servant staircases. 

(Fun Fact: the Ylissean palace entertained quite a large number of nymphos throughout the year.)

What _does_ bother him about these pairings are the noises they make. Not that he’s eavesdropping—oh no, not him. It’s just that the kissing noises, the slobbering, the breathy whispers and giggles and “heehees” and “ohhhhs” are all soooooooooo freakin’ loud, so it’s honestly a small wonder he can feel himself reacting, the dirty talk an aphrodisiac to his—his—well, his _dick_ , and gods, he’s such a perv isn’t he, secretly an Inigo, his nightmare coming true— 

“Gerome?” Footsteps, a voice. “Is that you?” 

“H-Huh?” He turns to his left and squints at the new arrival. It takes him a few seconds to recognize her in that pouffy pink and gold dress, her hair laced with pearls and, shit, is that griffon feathers? 

“Why are you lurking around by yourself in the dark?” Lucina asks. “Are you hiding from someone?” 

“I am not lurking. Or hiding,” he says, tugging his shirt down and the waist of his pants up. Subtly. Very subtly. “Ahem. I was just—enjoying the night air. It’s very…clean.” 

“I suppose it is, isn’t it?” Lucina smiles, her face aglow by the moonlight. “I haven’t been to a party in a while. I’m actually having a lot of fun!” 

“Oh.” He nods. “Well. Why are you outside then?” 

“I had to take a breather. It was getting too crazy in there.” The princess leans in close, as though confessing. Her voice drops in volume. “I actually saw Inigo kissing a girl. Can you believe that?” 

His eyebrows shoot upward. “No. I can’t.” 

“I know, right? This is nuts!” Lucina laughs. “And Owain had a little too much to drink, I think. Last I saw he was in the process of removing his shirt. That’s part of the reason why I left, actually. I wasn’t down to see that happen.” 

Gerome can feel his lips pull upward. “Hmph. It doesn’t surprise me he can’t hold his liquor.” 

“Yeah, well, at least he’s enjoying himself.” She smiles again, tentatively this time. “Are you? Enjoying yourself, I mean.” 

He grunts, noncommittal. “I’m not a fan of parties.” 

“I figured as much. I actually had a feeling you’d be out here. Um…” She looks around them. “At least you’re not alone. Seems like—seems like there are quite a few people around.” 

“Yeah. About that…” He clears his throat, and he can feel his face burn. “I wasn’t _watching_ them if that’s what you’re thinking—“ 

“Oh, no! No! I could never—I was never thinking that at all, Gods—“ 

“Yeah, I was just standing here, and they were all here too, so—“ 

“Yes, I get it, I totally get it—“ 

“So don’t get the wrong idea—“

“I wouldn’t. Won’t. I don’t! Have the wrong idea.” 

Silence. Pierced occasionally by the sound of moaning. 

“Um…I think I should just…go back inside now,” Lucina says, her eyes trained to the ground. 

“…Okay.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Um. Nice dress,” he lies. 

“Thanks. You—you have a good rest of the night.” 

“You too.” 

She disappears. 

He sighs. 

Gods. 

Mark that down as another failure in his attempt to talk to women. 

…Not that he considers Lucina a woman he would ever, under any circumstance, chat up _in that way._ She’s just a friend, one he’s long admired and been loyal to, and while he can appreciate her unwavering companionship to him, he has never appreciated her in the way he has appreciated someone else _…_

Someone who hates him now, apparently. Hates him so much that when they had first arrived at the party she had greeted Inigo with a wave and “hello” while barely looking him in the eye. 

 _But you deserve it,_ the voice in the back of his head says, and he acknowledges that the stupid voice may be right. Because, sure, maybe he _had_ brought Severa’s wrath upon himself, okay? Because, sure, maybe he _had_ accused her of being a bad lady, a bad woman, a bad girl, so bad, so bad, _say that again, baby, yes—_

He steps over the nearest couple and makes his way back to the inn. Fuck being outside any longer with these horny idiots, fucking with his mind and with each other and getting him all worked up, too—

The backdoors swing open. He’s nearly hit in the face, as a noisy, giggling pair run out into the night.

“Fuck you very much,” he mutters under his breath—a sentiment that doubles when he recognizes the voice of one of the two: high-pitched and light and familiar and oh Gods oh Gods oh Gods why does he have an erection right now—

“You’re cute,” Severa says.

“And you are so beautiful,” the guy holding Severa’s waist slurs. “Like. So beautiful…” 

Gerome, frozen by the doors, thinks he’s going to be sick. 

“Idle flattery won’t get you anywhere,” she says with a smirk.

“But I’m not kidding you. You’re soooooo pretty. Like a diamond.” 

“Wow, that’s something. Thanks, I guess?” 

“You’re welcome, angel. My angel. So strong, so firm…your legs are divine—“ 

So much for going inside. Gerome darts behind a tree instead, where he’s far enough from Severa and her barely-taller-than-her-and-has-a-dumb-face squeeze that they can’t see him but close enough that he can eavesdrop properly. 

“I want to ravish you in a way you’ve never been ravished before, my love,” Short-Dumb-Guy says. 

“Well, that won’t be too hard,” Severa replies. “Because, honestly…? I’ve never been ravished before.” 

A pause.

“…Ever?” Short-Idiot asks.

“Ever,” Severa answers.

“Oh, baby. Am I dreaming?” Short “Fuckface” McAsshole groans.

“Am _I_ dreaming?” Gerome growls, low, to himself. Stupid, stupid self. 

You had the chance to leave—and you can _still leave, moron!—_ but instead you decided to stand behind a tree and eavesdrop on the girl you like about to lose her virginity to some random asswipe with lines worse than Inigo’s—

“You’re not dreaming,” Severa says. “I’ve always been curious what it’s like…”

Gross, gross, gross, gross, gross, gross, gross. He can feel his heart constrict rather painfully in his chest, and ew, what is that turning in his stomach? It’s like indigestion but far more emotional, a little too invested for his tastes. 

Blah. _Jealousy…_ that little voice in the back of his head starts to sing, and he thinks he’s going to throw up by the force of how much he wants to punch McAsshole in the fucking face. 

Because, first of all, how dare he? How dare he touch her and act like he knows her, knows her beauty, her strength, her…her…legs? 

And, secondly, _who_ is he? Of all the guys she could’ve chosen to shack up with, she picks some random wackjob they’ve never met before? He could be a serial killer for all they know, and she could totally end up dead or worse by the end of this night, so Gerome should probably keep an eye, or at least an ear, on them, right? Right? That seems logical and normal and a “I care about you as a friend” kinda thing to do…

“Snap out of it,” he mutters to himself, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

Because this isn’t him. This isn’t him.

He doesn’t care what the others do, much less what Severa does. He cares approximately 0 percent.

Plus, it just _isn’t his place_ to police her behavior. Gods know a woman like Severa will do what she wants, and he’d have an easier time fighting Grima alone than fighting _her_ on groping strangers in the night.

Add on the fact that he doesn’t _own_ her or have any claim over her in any way anymore (they’re not even speaking, for gods’ sake), and he’s totally overreacting and, boy, he needs to get his shit together because this possessiveness thing he’s got going on in his (still constricting) heart and (still restless) stomach is not good. Not good at all. 

In fact, it’s downright psycho. 

Like Fuckface McAsshole is. 

“I wanna eat your fingers, baby—“

Gerome makes his way out from behind the tree. Then he makes his way back into the inn. Then he sort of backtracks a little bit on the whole “making his way through the inn” thing because there are still a couple of women hanging around and sniffing him out. 

So he hangs out by the backdoors with a bottle of beer in his hand, a bottle he consumes with much vigor and enthusiasm. On bottle number two, he tries to watch the dancing couples instead of imagining what Severa, who had looked so lovely with ribbons in her hair, and Mister McAsshole might be doing right now, right behind this pair of doors, and see, here, now, this is his third bottle of beer, and it’s getting hot and sweaty, and he wouldn’t mind a bit of fresh air again— 

He opens the door and steps outside. 

In time to hear her screaming. 

 


	6. 'cause here, we get to take our time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I'm loving that you all seem to be loving this. It makes me super happy to know that you guys are so enthusiastic about this fic. 
> 
> Secondly, let's turn up the heat, shall we? Hehehehehe.

At the start of the party, Severa had set some ground rules for herself. Had set some expectations. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you go to parties. 

You judge what you think will happen, what good can come of spending several hours holed up in a room full of friends and strangers alike, every last person horny as the devil and hungry for action of any kind.

And never mind that all parties end the same—with you tired and disgusted and absolutely regretting everything you’ve ever done ever—this party will be fun, you lie. This party will be okay. 

But it’s not okay. 

It’s not okay at all. 

For several reasons. 

And let’s start with the first—her expectations for how the night would go:

Casual flirtation. A few dances. Maybe even a make out session, if the guy is hot enough. She’s a growing girl after all, and on top of that, she’s wearing a little black dress, a killer number that makes her butt look fine. 

But really, really, _really,_ if she’s to be honest, which she totally is, she is just looking for something, _anything_ , to get her mind off the fact that when Gerome, looking (irrationally) good, walks in the door, he’s swarmed by women almost immediately. 

He’s bombarded by women. Literally attacked by women, shameless and tipsy and very, very handsy. 

Suffice it to say, however, that none of those women are her. 

(See: dignity. She’s got some.)

(See, also, that she’s: not jealous, okay, gods, she’s just irritated by the fact that he can render girls senseless and mindless and bold and that is just a horrible, awful, bad, bad thing to do because women deserve better than him and his destructive, all-consuming, overwhelming presence.)

(A sentiment Cynthia does not seem to share.)

“Wow!” Cynthia sighs, voice full of awe, when she catches sight of him and his swarm. “I had no idea Gerome was so popular with the ladies!” 

“It’s disgusting, isn’t it?” Severa asks, nose scrunched to really emphasize her point. 

“No, I think it’s cool. Dashing. Positively heroic! Like, the best heroes in the best legends have always had _many_ female admirers—” 

“Really?” Severa cocks a brow. “Doesn’t it, I don’t know—bother you?” 

“Doesn’t _what_ bother me?”

“That the guy you lo—I mean. I mean—look—it’s _weird_ , okay? It doesn’t seem right. Like, Gerome of all people? Being a ladykiller? That’s the weirdest… _thing_ I’ve ever thought, ever.” 

Cynthia shrugs, unfazed. “I don’t know. It’s not like he’s a _real_ ladykiller. He’s just got a lot of fans! Who happen to be girls. Besides, he’s a catch. Of all the guys I know, Gerome’s deserving of female attention the most.” 

“Ugh.” Ugh. “I need a drink.” 

And so Severa gets a drink. Then she gets another drink, and then three—the third bought for her by a relatively cute guy. He’s a little short for her tastes (she’s 5’6”, and he’s barely 5’8”), but he’s got a charming smile and doesn’t smell weird. 

So what the hell. She dances with him. She goes outside with him. And what she ends up getting, at the end of this whole night, is this (not quite on par with her expectations, but hey, it’s _something_ , alright): 

Heavy flirtation, which turns into a full on lesson in groping and inappropriately touching in the dark. It’s kinda fun in a dirty, naughty sort of way; in a way that no real lady would ever, ever, _ever_ indulge. 

What’s _not_ so fun, however, is then, _in the middle of kissing_ , being hit with a stunning spell that renders her unable to defend herself as her “date” rips the rings from her fingers and the choker from her neck and then tries to take her panties too (of all things, the creep!), only she stops him from stealing the latter with a timely kick to the groin (his spell sucks, the weakling)—but sadly it isn’t enough to keep him from escaping into the night like the sneaky, disgusting lowlife that he is. 

Ugh. “Fucking shit…”

A messy-haired young man appears from behind a hedge. “Hey, I heard you screaming. Are you alright—?“

“Severa?” 

Another, and decidedly bigger, young man pushes the guy aside. To Severa’s enormous, almost tear-inducing relief, it’s a young man she is happy to see, because he’s here for her, oh joy! He’s here to protect her, to defend her, to comfort her, to witness her total and _utter_ humiliation in being overpowered by some grimy, filthy, _cheap shot_ asshole, who probably wouldn’t stand a _second_ in her presence had she not been incapacitated so humiliatingly—

“I’m okay. I’m fine,” she mutters, not meeting Gerome’s eyes. She pulls at her skirt and wipes at her knees. “I was just caught off-guard is all.”

“The dastard didn’t—he didn’t—do anything _to_ you, did he—?”

“What, like robbing me? Because he did just that.” 

Gerome narrows his eyes. “And…that’s it?” 

“What do you mean ‘that’s it’? Of course that’s it!” She sighs. “Look, if that weren’t ‘it’ I’d say something.” She gnaws on her bottom lip for a second, then adds, softly, “I swear.” 

He helps her sit up, and she notices alcohol on his breath, which surprisingly doesn’t turn her off. Or maybe it’s his cologne that’s so forgivable, so nice. 

(Of course he wears cologne to parties. She can’t blame the women from before for wanting to stand so close to get more of it, or all of it, so darkly sweet a scent—) 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says. “No cuts, no bruises?” 

“Nope. Nothing.” She pulls at her right sleeve; it’s short, but it’s dark outside, and so maybe he won’t notice—

“You’re lying.” He pushes her hand away (gently, gently) and pulls up her sleeve, unveiling a rather large bruise. A really, very unsightly bruise, outlined by pink, crescent-shaped nail marks. 

“Motherfucker,” he curses under his breath. “I’ll find him. I have Minerva. I’ll kill him—“

“You don’t have to. What’s the point?” She scoffs. “I mean—he caught me off-guard. It’s my fault. I should’ve been more careful. Really, I had it coming—“ 

Even behind his mask, he looks incredulous. “Severa. It’s not your fault.” 

“Yeah it is.” She wipes at her eyes, a single tear staining the back of her hand. “I let a guy stun me. _Me_ , of all people! No one’s gotten the best of me in what—weeks? Months? _Years?_ I can take care of myself, I just…I just _didn’t_ tonight, and I should’ve known better.” 

He’s quiet for several seconds. She can hear him breathing. 

“What did he take?” Gerome asks. 

“Jewelry.” 

“Your necklace…?”

“Yeah, and my rings. I wasn’t wearing my mother’s ring, thank gods, but the ones he took weren’t cheap either.”

He nods. “They can be replaced. Though…there’s no way he could’ve made it _that_ far from the inn. I could still give chase—” He stands.

She grabs the fabric of his pants. “No. It’s not worth it.”

“Why not? You said yourself that your rings are of value—“

“Well, so are you!” she says, averting her eyes. “Listen. I just—I don’t—I don’t want you to needlessly… _do_ anything for me, especially something that could hurt you.” 

He’s quiet for a long moment, as she continues to stare at the ground. 

“…Is that really how weak you think I am?” 

“What?” She looks up. 

“I can take a thief on my own.” He sets his jaw. “I can take several.” 

“I—I know that! That’s not even what I meant!” She sighs, then makes to stand. This conversation is going places she has no business going. 

He helps her up, one hand on her (unbruised) arm. “Then what did you mean?”

“It’s like I said, idiot! I don’t—I don’t want you to risk yourself _for_ me. I mean, we’re not even partners anymore. You have no obligation to me. And it was _my fault_ , okay? It was my mess. If anyone should clean anything up, it should be me.” 

“Tch.” He shakes his head. “Spare me the self-pity, Severa. It doesn’t become you.”

She can feel her right eye start to twitch, her left fist starting to clench. Ohhhhhhh, how _dare_ he touch precisely on that one, particular nerve she doesn’t want touched! The matter of her self-esteem, her tendency to throw pity parties…he’s not allowed to know that, to own that, to use that against her. 

And to think his act of compassion had _just_ written him off her shitlist, too—

“Well get fucking used to it, mister, because I’ll say whatever the hell I want!“  She narrows her eyes.

He blinks. “Severa.” 

“What?” she snaps.

He steps forward, and she steps back. 

“H-Hey!” she says. “Don’t come any closer—“

“You’re bleeding.” 

“What—?”

She feels a hand on the back of her left thigh, a touch of skin to skin so sudden, so intimate that she’s blushing, she’s blushing, oh gods, his fingers gently dragging upward then pressing, a stinging so sharp and lovely reverberating throughout her body—

“You have a cut parallel to the back of your knee.” 

“H-Huh?” She swallows. “How—“ 

“I don’t know.” He brings his fingertips to her face, and she can see wetness there, blood red, well, _blood._ Her blood. 

“O-Oh, wow, haha…” She exhales shakily. “H-How’d that get there?” 

“He didn’t pull a weapon on you, did he?”

“No…” She looks down and around, and godsdamn it, yep, there it is, the bandage she had haphazardly wrapped around herself come undone and lying in the grass. “I…had no idea…”

“Stop lying,” he growls, so low she can feel it in the parts of her body no one’s ever felt before. 

“…I’m not lying,” she manages to say.

“Did you sustain this wound yesterday, perchance? When you had a mission with Laurent and, instead of waiting for him to join you, charged ahead alone and gotten yourself ambushed?” 

“How—how’d you know about that?”

“I talked to Laurent.”

“Yeah, well—no—“

“I told you not to lie.” 

Chastened, she admits defeat. “Okay. Fine. This wound _was_ from yesterday, maybe…perhaps…” 

“It needs stitches,” he says. “Why didn’t you get it treated properly before?” 

“Because it’s just a scratch!” 

“By whose definition of ‘scratch’?” He sighs, a long-suffering sound, then very deftly removes the cravat from his neck. “Here.” 

She accepts the silken cloth, still warm from the heat of him, and attempts to wrap it around her injured leg. When she fumbles a little too long with it (it’s godsdamn dark out here and how about _you_ try wrapping your own thigh up while standing), he sighs _again_ , before swatting her hands away, kneeling, and doing all the work himself. 

(She tries not to think too much about how he looks on bended knee, the moon casting a halo upon his head, his touch light but firm, efficient, like his fighting.)

“There,” he grunts when he’s done. 

By the pressure of her new (and improved) bandage, her thigh aches pleasantly, mirroring the uncalled for and unabashed aching _between_ her thighs. Stupid, stupid body. Stupid, stupid— 

“…Thanks,” she says, her cheeks warmer than hellfire. 

“You’re welcome.” He stands, his head turned toward the inn. She can spot her blood still on his hand. “Let’s find a healer.” 

“Now?” she asks. 

“Yes, now. I said it needed stitches, didn’t I?” 

“I can wait until we get back to camp,” she says. “I doubt we’ll find anyone remotely close to sober _now_ …”

“I’ll beat them sober. Come.”

She does as she is told. 


End file.
